Epitome of Perfection
by xrictusemprax
Summary: The days, they turn into years, the eyes they drown in tears. Can you hear me scream?
1. Chapter 01

**Disclaimer: **It's never happened. I don't own it.

**Author's Note: **Twisted, odd fic about how awful Lucius is (though he's not in the books, or so it seems…) Um… yeah, I have noting to say, other than there's extreme sadism… so… —oh, it's also Draco's POV, and though he's forgotten how old he is (he's not mental and Lucius has not wiped his memory—Draco's memory is fractured by how many Dark Arts curses he's been under—it should be able to happen, and by the fact that he's so hopeless and sad, it doesn't matter anymore), I'd say somewhere around twenty give or take a little.

I also pity Draco times a million in this story. I can't imagine a life like this.

**Pairings: **No pairings, though implied cruelty with Lucius/Draco.

**Rating: **Um… hybrid mix between T and M.

Epitome of Perfection 

"_The days, they turn into years, the eyes they drown in tears. Can you hear me scream?"_

-Time Stands Still – All American Rejects

**01.**

The streaming water is cold as it blinds me, gushing into my lungs as I giving into it malignantly, icy eyes fixed upon his. He never blinks those amused metallic eyes, only stares at me, making me feel worthless like filth. A very small smile paints itself upon his rosy lips as he shadows my figure on the floor with his stone-gray eyes that burn an unseen inferno of fire into me.

I hate him because no one hurts me like he does, but I have no choice.

I strain harshly, squeezing my silver eyes shut, praying for release, praying for Mother to come into the room and stop him. However, no such things occur, only a counter-curse is muttered through the dusky silence of my asphyxiation and I fall on all fours, coughing up water and crying. I don't know if I was really crying or simply allowing the water that had gotten trapped beneath my thin eyelids loose, but nonetheless, my eyes itch and burn. I don't call this counter-curse release. It's not. I hurt worse than I did under the binds of the imperceptible water. It ties me down invisibly, just like he does… and because I'm frail and defenseless, I'm forced to cave.

The Ministry thinks they know Dark Arts, stating that the Unforgivables are the worst that can come to you. They know nothing, not a sheer fraction of what my father does. Fudge believes he truly has right to throw people into prison for using Cruciatus. They all think they're so smart, he and that bloody Ministry.

I fall at his feet, couching violently and tugging at his robes that are embroiled with silver serpents of the finest lace; they're a crimson color, and I know that's exactly the color of what spills when he cuts me. Oxygen reminds me of the gushing water that swirled into my lungs like a tedious knife would in the most vindictive and aggressive fashion. Our eyes meet and I shiver once more. His are white looking and dangerous, though beautiful in their own sadistic way. I know my eyes are weak, lifeless and remotely the same color as his, as he constantly reminds me, but I don't remember what they look like. I can't remember my own face I used to groom daily when I was attending Hogwarts.

I can't remember how old I am because he never gives me any presents or mentions the day of my birth as today. Every day is the same to me, anyways. The sun begs me to get up and warms my beaten body with delicate rays that make the red blood dry all over my snowy-pale skin; when the sun is very hot and plays games with me, daring me to chase my own shadow, Father slips me some food. It's the same everyday—a small glass of water and half of a flimsy sandwich but I savor it. Some days, if I'm really lucky, Mother makes it for me and she adds some mayonnaise or a slice of tomato, but she's never home nowadays. The sun fades into a bloody sunset, vowing me goodbye until the morning and my pain begins; once he's done with torturing me, the moon casts shadows that swirl all over my pitiful desolate room walls murderously and remind me of his towering figure, so I curl up next to the door and whisper to myself, crying desperately. I can only recall it's near my birthday by watching through the windows secretly or paying attention to how hot it is. I think I'm born in June.

I know it's Father's birthday every time, however. It's those nights he gets drunk with old friends such as Severus and Nott, inviting several families and people over for a outsized feast and ball; I'm expected to be there and he lends me beautiful, refined clothing, covering up my bruises and scars with spells and allowing me to take a bath. I'm afraid of the water, but I force myself to scrub away layers of blood, dirt and pain because I only have the opportunity annually. During his superior feast and ball, Lucius treats me like a father should treat his son. I'm offered food I don't even know existed on this Earth, drinks are generously poured and harshly interpreted by my taste buds so used to dirty gray water, gentle music reaches my ears and I forget about what the night has in store for me, because when it's Lucius' birthday, my usual punishment is prolonged and worsened.

At two or three in the morning, we bid the guests goodbye and he leads me to his bedroom. Sometimes, I'm commanded to strip down totally and he abuses me in the filthiest, most painful way imaginable. Not only is it shameful and emotionally scarring, he rips me inside out, digging his nails into my marked skin, adding onto my dear collection of scabs, cuts and bruises. He comes hard those nights, screaming my name over and over. I feel proud—just being there makes him feel really good, but then my pitiful pride is torn from me when he stumbles drunkenly to his closet and opens it, grabbing knives and whips. Though he may be drunk and hazy, my father would never kill me. He knows my service to him, knows what I'm made for. Lucius knows not to get too carried away. However, he hurts me more than he ever does—internally and externally. I'm ashamed to look down at my body for I know what happened to me the previous night. I know how he drained what little purity I had and cut my soul and heart into two. He kills me year after year.

This is why I remember my father's birthday.

He doesn't allow me to see mirrors. There are no mirrors in this house, none but the one in his bathroom and I'm never allowed into such a pristine and majestic space, because I am vermin and he is a king. He makes me avidly withdraw from the rest of the world, a mere punch bag for when things go wrong where he works or with the Dark Lord. He doesn't know, though. Since I've stopped screaming, he's forgotten that my senses have not gone numb. I only cry silently, though some nights, I can suppress that until I'm in my own room, lying on the cold stone floors.

Maybe that's all he's waiting for—a scream or plead from my mouth. However, I'll never scream; I only wait for something I know will never come.

He tangles a hand into his lush, long hair and arches an eyebrow smoothly. His hair's just like mine, though the tangled locks I call my own are much, much shorter than his. He cleaves them off every month or so with red knives he's used on me. I've forgotten what a month is, or how many hours there are in a day but I can suppose by watching the silky, pale moon. It smiles back at me, though I like the sun more. We play games together and I talk to it a lot. I tell the sun stories and it listens, reflecting its joy at how the hero wins by showering me in powerful rays and showing its dislike at the frightening scenes by letting a cloud cover it, but I see it peeking back at me, wondering who is to triumph. However gentle and nice the sun may be, the moon is humble and caring. We don't spend happy times together, but the moon makes me feel at ease. Though it does cast shadows across the room that is unfurnished (Father burnt my furniture to ashes when I came back from Hogwarts with bad grades) I know it's innocent and doesn't mean to scare me. It wraps a blanket of peace and relaxation over me, because when it watches over me with protuberant eyes, Father cannot whip my flesh, scrape my skin raw with knives, or tie my limbs up with ropes, unless it's his birthday.

I have the two best friends in the whole, wide world—my sun and my moon. I am going to join their stars one day. I cannot wait, then I can have iridescent friends that I alone could not count. I would like to share my stories with them, but they can't listen to me on Earth… the moon and sun are much bigger, much closer it seems.

"Draco," his venomous voice spits and I look up, finally stopped coughing and sputtering madly. I gaze at him and my heart leaps. While my eyes absorb that cold face, I wonder what could have been if he did not decide to torture and abuse me every day. If he were just a little different, what friends we could be. I'd tell him my stories and he'd laugh, praise me, or maybe even kiss me on the cheek showing some affection.

Father never kisses me, though. He ravishes my mouth, biting and splitting the skin on my pink lips, sucking roughly at the meek blood that flows. His teeth are strong and so like mine. I don't dare appose to this action, however. I allow him to drain me of whatever he wishes—he's stolen my purity, he's shattered my heart, and scraped me of whatever will I had left to live. I don't know if there's more he can take from me, only whatever little existence I possess, but that's not worth his time.

Why doesn't he just let me die?  
I answer softly, "Yes, Master?" my lips are so numb, barley forming the words I need to. I realize I'm cold, and sit down as I wrap my very thin arms around myself. Tears form in my crystal eyes and I look down, blinking them away.

His imposing healthy face is pointed at me, sweet tongue running across his bottom lip. "You are to generate an heir soon, boy. You must, for the Malfoy Empire must be passed down."

I shake my head solemnly, wishing I didn't have to say what I was going to. "I cannot, Master."  
Lucius growls and reaches out a warm hand and forced my chin up roughly. "Why can't you?" his painted red nails scrap across my skin and I shudder.

"Father, I'll never be whole again… no one would ever want me as their husband or lover for one night. I could never let someone into my heart."

My ruler and lord smirks, leaning back in his wooly armchair, left hand drumming slowly upon the armrest of the sheepskin seat while the right is stroking his snakehead cane. "I do not care. Make your mother have your child. The bottom line is that you will get someone pregnant very soon. I insist."

I sniff and rock back and fourth, a pitiful sight indeed. My body has been reduced to something almost lifeless—a walking skeleton. Everything hurts inside and out. The flesh stretching over my ribcage is strained tightly over the ebony bone because I've lost more weight than normal, my skinny hands and feet hurt because he whips me everywhere, my face feels innate and strange because he cuts me all over, and my soul has died long ago, just laying in a decaying body, waiting for death so that my physical being could be put out of pain and my essence could travel on to inhabit something worthwhile.

"Attend dinner with me, Draco."  
My eyes snap up and I gawk at him as if he just uttered the most absurd thing I've ever heard. Surely, there must be a catch…

"Then, you may come and sleep with me in my bed."

I groan softly, knowing that that was what he wanted from me. He merely wished to lure me into a bear trap so that tonight he'd be able to use my body. However, being no stranger to such a game and wishing for nothing more but food, I nod softly. He smiles and stands up, only to kneel before me. I watch him with hard eyes as he absorbs my face. Lucius did nothing but watch me wryly, rising from the floor seconds later to saunter over to his dresser and pull out what seemed to be a green and silver robe. I did not expect him to throw it at me gently, and reach into his drawer to pull out boxers that he flung in my direction. "You may use my washroom."

My heart literally stopped for a second and my breath got caught in my throat. "Are you sure, Master?"

His eyes were not deadly still as they were when we looked at each other, but rather smiling in a ridiculous fashion, though his thin lips twitched not; they did not sneer, nor did they smile. "Yes."

He leaves swiftly, slamming the door in a trademark fashion behind him. I watch as the last of his golden hair so neatly tied back in a bow swishes, and then I'm alone in the room, looking pathetic in a thin shirt and rag-like pants that barely reach my ankles. They're my only two garments, and though they're bloodstained and far too thin for a summer's night, let alone a blistering winter, I've never complained.

I falteringly stand up and make for the washroom door, opening it and being greeted by paradise. It's a cool blue color with pale lilac tiles that seem to be carefully painted; in the center of the vast room is a small pool. A golden fountain of a seraph is erected in the middle of the bathing pool and there is a large sink with an oversized mirror that I approach slowly. I throw the clothing Father has given me onto the floor and gaze at the mirror.

It shows me a boy of such abused beauty. I have glittering blue-gray eyes that remind me of the clouds my sun hides behind, with creamy eyebrows that are naturally striking. My eyelashes are dark and in immense numbers, beating across my upper eyelids as I blink. I move my hands onto my face and run the bloody fingers over scars and cuts varying in depth and length. My cheeks are beautiful but hollow, with high bone structure, though there are punches and blood all over them. Across my forehead are more scars and tendrils of agony, and my nose seems a little bent over to the left side, perhaps because Father's broken it several times. I have gorgeous lips that are much fuller than Father's of the rosiest color imaginable with cuts over those too, and teeth marks of where he's bitten me. My teeth aren't bad at all, in fact—Lucius has always let me brush them every morning but not every night. They have blood lining the corners, because I cough up blood every time he punches me in the stomach.

Slowly taking my clothes off, I admire how beautiful my body is, but very skinny. My chest is pale and my abdomen is beautifully sculpted with tough muscles. Before the abuse started, I worked out daily, and it stuck. Once fully naked, I see my thighs and am revolted. They possess the most cuts of any part of my body, with various knobby scars and scabs that will never heal. Maybe they will, on second though, maybe if Father and I become close one day (though not too close—he's shattered me and I'll never be whole) he'll get rid of them.

While gazing at my body, dumbstruck at how beautiful I could be if he'd allow me, I notice similarities between the two of us—his bone structure is the exact same, and our hair has no difference in color whatsoever. Though my hair is crimson with flecks of blood, and though it's unevenly chopped off, I adore how our hairline is precise to the last inch, and how our hair would fall exactly the same way if mine were a little longer.

Having no reflection for ages, I've studied him far too long; I know every inch of his flesh, every curve, perfection and flaw. I know he wants that, however. He was my mirror, those gray eyes like murderous orbs, reflecting so much of me. I couldn't see my face echoed upon those pellucid irises, but everything about him resonates what I appear to be, though it's a different story within—he's full of sadism and arrogance and I modesty and hurt. We're spoiled perfection in a very twisted way. Maybe he's jealous of my beauty; maybe he wants his youth back by destroying me. I don't see how this works, but as Father says, I must obey or the consequences are inevitable and far worse than initially.

Sometimes, I look back upon my childhood and wish that things were different. I wish Father didn't beat me unconscious when I was thirteen until I was a mere hair away from death; I wish Father didn't slice Mum's stomach open when she was very pregnant with what was to be my first sibling; I wish Father didn't snap my broom into two, because if that Potter kid could get into the Triwizard Tournament, a Pureblood Malfoy should be allowed; I wish Father noticed how much better I'd gotten at Quidditch in my Fifth Year; I wish that Father didn't spit on my ten NEWTs and criticize that I could have gotten all O's like that bitch Granger… I just wish I could make Father proud.

I'll never make Father proud, though. I ask for too much.

Slowly, I step into the tub that is filled with sizzling, gushing water. It stings and burns at first, but as I'm accustomed to the extreme heat, my water phobia seems to slip away into the back of my brain; I hastily pour nice smelling bubbles into the small pool and am reminded of the Prefects' bathrooms. The foam turns a light shade of pink as I lean against the vast tub's confines, shutting my eyes, feeling at peace.

The blood plastered to my skin is dissolved off, but some recent and fresh cuts rapturously blaze as though real knives were there, to cleave my skin open like he does. I raise my wounded hands and admire their cleanness before allowing them to scrub the rest of my flesh.

xxx

I walk towards Father, who is neatly seated behind the grandiose dinner table, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed as though content to see me.

I say nothing as I take the seat far across him, but before I allow my weight to fall upon the chair fully, his curt look stops me; he points to the chair next to his and I am compelled to agree.

Once I am sitting on the edge of the splendid masterpiece of carved wood, Lucius smiles dully.

Maybe he's waiting for me to say something, to thank him or to scream. However, my mouth is shut and I timidly look down at the table, lined with a spotless white tablecloth.

"Draco." I don't look up as the word cuts the silence. I can feel his gaze persisting, but I want to fight him off. He won't win. I won't look at him, I won't be grateful, I won't be angry, I won't be jealous, I won't be happy, I won't be used again.

I'll be nothing.

"_Draco_." His words are lined with a hard shell of agitation, and I fear whether I should look up or not. Father's carefully engraved features are solid as he continues staring at me.

"Look. At. Me."

_No._

A cold hand is grasping mine and he digs his nails into my meek skin very demandingly. I don't care, though; he's not getting what he wants. I've endured worse before, anyways.

"Do you love your mother?" Lucius huskily asks, leaning in so that his silky, untied hair hits the table forcefully in a lush but arrogant manner.

I do, but I won't say. I don't want her hurt because I can't swallow my pride, but I won't surrender him. I'm so sick of it all.

Lucius' nails are digging into my skin with passive vigor and it's hard to not let sound tremble from my lips, but I resist. "If you loved her, you'd answer me."

_No._

It is then he offers me the strong wine.

**Author's Note: **NOT DONE NOT DONE NOT DONE.

KAYKAY.

Yup, review this… poor sad little story. Chapter two will be, erm, soon.


	2. Chapter 02

(**Author's Note: **Finally, I update! Thanks a lot for your reviews, but I don't see this story's amazing-ness… well, this is the concluding chapter! Enjoy, I suppose?)

"Tonight, I am teaching you the meaning of resistance and how to oppose to power. Not yet, however. There is no need to shield yourself from me… so far." Lucius drawls.

I challenge him with a hard gaze and abruptly begin eating, trying to shut the voice up that's screaming in the back of my head, screaming how stupid I was to allow him this opportunity.

xxx

Lucius leads me to his room silently, hand biting at my skin. Once the majestic door is open, he gestures for me to enter. I do and sit upon his bed, waiting for the serpent's next move. He trails my figure with his gray eyes and smirks in a refined manner.

"To fight off a curse, Draco, you must learn about the origins of it. You much learn how it is produced and use these facts in reverse to diminish the curse. However, you were unfortunate to be born such scum, so I do not think you could muster the wit to do such thinking while under someone's physical or mental control." Lucius allowed these words to sink in, smiling lightly at me, draining hurt from my face.

I spit, "I know how to fight a curse! I mean, it just gets less and less efficient… soon your dear Crucio won't hurt me." If anything was true, it was this. I remember being put under this Curse from the day I turned thirteen. Alas, there was no number for the times Lucius hissed this word… maybe a million zeroes could follow a one, but that would not suffice to explain.

Lucius' eyes narrow. "That's becoming accustomed to the pain, boy. No, you must learn to _fight_ it off before you become so used to it that it doesn't bother you much. Scream as much as you want and cry, but no one will hear you. That is not fighting. That's merely surrender."

"I'm afraid of you! How am I supposed to stand up and fight it off? I wouldn't, not even if I knew how to, Father! You cannot say these things in such a hypocritical fashion!"

"I can say them in whatever fashion I wish to!" Lucius roars, slapping my cheek; I gasp and fall upon the bed, propping myself up on my elbows.

Lucius towers over me, glaring at the meek body that lay upon his lilac covers.

"Then do not expect me to fall for your bait because I'd much rather you just beat me than embarrass me and play games! Take me, I'm all yours!" I howl, tears trickling from my eyes.

The older man unbuckles his belt and brings it from the loops of his pants. He cracks the leather but I don't flinch. Instead, I spread my hands, palms up and offer them to my father.

When Lucius gives me a questioning look, I shrug. "Maybe whipping my hands isn't enough. What shall we progress to, Father? My feet?" I rip off my shoes and tear the clean socks.

"_How dare you_?" my father snarls, toying with the belt he was holding.

I chuckle softly, wiping away tears. "I dare because you'll just beat the crap out of me, anyways. Why should I hold my silence while you scream your glee? No, Father. Today I'd much rather go down with a flame, shall we say?"  
Lucius gives a very dry, prolonged laugh and stares at me, wondering what else I wanted to say. "You're only asking for more."

"It hurts less on scar-tissue, I hope you know. Go ahead. Nothing you do will make me scream. You want to teach me resistance? I truthfully want you to try. Go, get whatever you have in those dungeons—but be warned, you may just lose yourself along the way." My words are meant to be an obstacle but Lucius merely gazes at me stoically.

"I am going to kill you, Draco."

I burst out laughing, collapsing across the bed once more; the ceiling makes me dizzy looking at it, so I smirk crudely and fix my eyes on him. "I've wanted naught more but death for it's been years since I stand prisoner of your twisted mentality! Your killing would only drench me of my pain. But then again, wasn't your plan to make me hurt more than I can imagine? Yes, yes it was," I answer my own question. "Good job. You did it."

"I am going to rip your limbs off one by one and hang you over a fire to bleed into the ashes." His voice tells that there is no lie staining his words. I am certain he will do just that, but what glory is there in having your father tear your body into two and allow you to smoke over kindling fire?

I mock, "Are you really? Why not do it now? I mean, I'm all yours, just waiting to be ripped apart mercilessly. Can't you see? Take me now, Father. Cut me open and feed my entrails to my mother, why don't you?"

Lucius' temper is a raging storm within him, but he says nothing, staring at me coldly as if he wished for nothing more but my demise. "You are going to regret ever telling me these things. Draco, I am going to make you do a little more than scream tonight."

I snort and roll my eyes. "Easy talk, shallow words. So, mastermind, why not just do it? You've kept me caged for a million, billion hours and days. Do you not think that your constant screams of Crucio and twisted Dark Arts spells I can't even try to pronounce daily would not steal my sane mind? Then surely, Father, something but be deranged in _your_ head."

"Do you like provoking me?" Lucius whispers. "I hope you get some satisfaction from it. I _will_ hold true to my word."

"No, because I don't care. You can leave me to rot in a cell or take a sharp knife and engrave 'scum' all over my body. You know, nothing really quite does match up to the night when you made that curse of yours cut open all of my veins. In fact, that was the most bliss I've felt in a long, long time because I thought for a fleeting moment you'd let me die. No, I was sadly mistaken." I smile sadly.

"So, Father—" I begin to say but am cut off with a swift cry of, "_Crucio!_"

The pain curse ripples through my body and I can feel the needles and knives dragging their selves across my stomach and insides. My skin is on fire, a blazing inferno washing across the pale flesh, while my head is being compacted under pressure.

"How long can you last, Draco, how long!" he laughs evilly, focusing greatly, when…

A sudden surge of mind-blowing pain tears through me. My mouth is shut and I don't yell or scream at all, just maintain perfect eye contact with him while he tortures me slowly into insanity.

I know I can't last under this amount of pain and ripping sensations that promise invisible wounds, I inhale sharply and allow the hurt to run across me, knives being thrown into my heart. No, I can't last, no I can't… for how could anyone… oh, it hurts, it hurts so badly…

"SUFFER!" Lucius roars and I twitch painfully under the Curse. "Suffer you little brat, you piece of scum! Suffer!"

"I—WON'T!" I cry out, finding that my voice is instable due to the excruciating pain. "I will not crack, not under this pathetic attempt at pressure. You're stupid to think that this will make me 'scream,' Father. Listen to me now!" I laugh merrily, screaming like a bellowing monster within.

Never have I felt such saws cutting through my entrails, not have I experienced such…

Relief.

He lifts the Curse and scowls at me. My body is limp on his bed and I feel that if I'd try to move, that everything would shatter.

"I can't say it wasn't a nice try, Father. But, you know, it's hard for me to allow you to feel my pain when this thing has become my best friend; I see more of this Curse than I see of you." I jest, "I _like _this pain. It feels so… good. I bet you'd cry like a child if I put you under it."

Lucius sneers at me and twirls his wand. "Maybe so, but that's just because I'm not used to it, not like you. I haven't misbehaved… Not. Like. _You_."

"Well, I'm sorry for being born." I retort, shaking gently. The Curse was a melody of power, the harmonies twisting into a delicate vine that tangled across my bones. I simply watch him with my eyes, knowing that maybe he'll set me free tonight. Maybe I can be a lost soul at the crack of dawn.

Lost souls always find their way, anyhow.

Lucius' lips sneer dirtily and he spits, "Give me your hand, Draco."

I ponder over this inquiringly, but stretch my palms out and he grasps the wrist painfully. I gasp lightly as the fingers tighten as harshly as they can, cutting off my circulation. The wrist has a pale blue creeping along the flesh and the sadistic hands grab my other wrist.

Lucius holds my limp hands on one of his, grabbing his wand with his free hand. A small, songlike spell he hisses, and the most solid and unyielding chains wrap themselves around the already bruised flesh. He gives me a small smile and kisses my cheek, the lips misting across my skin. I know what he means to do, but not entirely. My father snaps his fingers lazily and laughs, "Oh, my boy… I could take this any way I wanted to… you're going to beg me for mercy that I will give upon request."

"Me, beg? Never." I chortle, feeling my veins clotting with pulsing blood. I can't decide what's worse—having to suffer painfully tonight and die, or let a small scream escape and endure another torturous years as his punch bag.

Lucius doesn't reply but stands up and takes the chains that bind me. He drags me across the room by the hand and out to the serpentine hallways. I want to scream, but only to hear the last echoes of my heart beating and lungs breathing.

I have made up my mind.

He kicks open the door to my room and flicks his wand, conjuring a dozen candles that groggily shine. I am near tears, but only because of the surprise of it all. Whatever happened to sleeping in his bed? I regret not eating for dinner—how was I to know it was my last?

Lucius glares at me and presses me against the wall, clutching my throat. My feet levitate above the ground and he pins his wand into my chest. Another spell issues and he chains me to the wall by the neck, stomach and feet. It's not like a hangman; it's a lot worse. I can breathe, but only just. I crave death.

Stepping back, he conjures a knife. It's rather big, almost a sword, but akin to a butcher's knife. I don't know what he means by it, but I assess it states trouble. Still, I won't scream.

Lucius' eyes shine darkly. "Beg now, or forever hold your peace."

"For all of eternity," I breathe, "Forever, Father…"

"Very well, then." He takes the knife and drags it across my chest, cutting the fabric clothing me. Soon, his pressure increases and the blade plunges deeper into me, at last drawing blood. It's a long line that stretches across my pastel skin, it's fingers playing darkly across it. Lucius focuses and the knife cuts more and more, until he stops at me navel. Now, it's a horizontal line he constructs, and I feel hot blood spilling down my abdomen.

"You're mine, Draco. Mine for all of eternity," he uses my words on me. "I mar your skin; I am your personal Dark Mark."

At first, I don't understand, but then it dawns on me—he carved an L into my flesh.

I growl, "And my presence is to haunt you, Father!"

"Take your last breath, Draco," he best advises. Lucius stabs my stomach quickly. The blood spurs out, casting the darkest shadows on the moonlit floor. He drags his thumb across my lip and kisses the tear stained cheek. "Die, my darling."

I am tempted to scream, but only because I know he didn't stab hard enough, not enough for instant death. He drops the knife and smiles evilly, the delicate features devilish in the milky light.

He leaves the room and binds the door shut by chains again. I wait a few minutes and start to scream, the sound innate to my ears. Echoes surround me and I sob my desperation out. Why'd you do it, Father? Why didn't you just kill me? Now I must suffer… what joy is there in this?

My gray eyes slide to the window across me and the moon is there. It smiles sadly at me and its light kisses my wounds gently, making sure not to hurt me anymore. My beautiful moon.

Soon, it starts to cry, the ground wetting with its sorrow and tears. I mirror the pain and try my best to feign happiness.

I shut my fluttering eyes and whisper, "Thank you, Moon. Goodnight."

_The sad End._

(**Author's Note:** It could have been worse! Hey, at least that was somewhat poetic. And I have no idea why you people like this story so much. But anyways… Review!)


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